One Final Time, One Final Moment
by MasterMind v.2.0
Summary: Sometimes all you want is a way out... (deathfic)


**One Final Time, One Final Moment**

_By: MasterMind v.2.0_

_Warnings- Suicide-fiction. First posted in my LJ, but decided to share on here, after a recent bout with depression and SI. -_-. I need help._

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_'once more, once more can't hurt.'_  
  


He slumped backwards onto the rock-hard bed Esset had provided for him. Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling, debating with himself.  
  
_'Esset doesn't deem you important, look, you're stuck in the basement, while your teammates have their own suites almost.'_  
  
He knew it was true. He was the telekinetic, the expert hacker, but still, a mere child. At 15, he was the youngest graduate from Rosenkruz since Crawford 5 years earlier. The nightmares still haunted him. That's why 'his relief' had started.  
  
_'Schwarz- you're just a burden to them as well. They were a perfectly well-functioning team without you.'_  
  
He knows that's true as well, but he refuses to believe that he is the burden of Schwarz. Crawford had Schuldich* to look after. The German seemed to be borderline**, serious and violent one moment, cheerful and almost motherly the next. He'd begun to think Schuldich would do anything for Crawford. Probably even die, he bets. But Schuldich's been around the longest, following Crawford since the beginning. Farfarello? The raving Irishman was actually relatively easy to care for, as long as he was on his medication. Even with that, he had to admit he was afraid of the Irishman, his looks reminding him of a stray, one that's been on the streets too long. It reminds him too much of himself. He thinks the Irishman was sick of the real world, and created one of his own. He thinks of Farfarello like that, only his world is worse. The guilty are the victims, and the rules are all reversed. That world is horrid, but the real world is worse.  
  
_'come on, once more... you need one more.'_  
  
No, he thinks he doesn't. Isn't this one enough? This should be enough to grant him what he wants. What he needs. What, in his own mind, he thinks is best for Schwarz.  
  
_'isn't this nice, there's a nice rhythm, knowing there's an orderly chaos to everything, even the extremes. Don't you like that?'_  
  
He did. The rhythm, the freedom he was hearing, feeling, and seeing put him into a state of euphoria. He had never felt so unburdened, so independent. Turning his head to the side, he smiled a sarcastic, mocking smile. The blood falling from his wrist dripped in a pattern, one after another, falling through the air, crashing into a puddle on the ground which was shimmering with the glow of the computer monitor reflecting off it, He feels odd, like he wants to make it final. Help his team in the only way he feels he can. He now knows it is him who is the burden on Schwarz.  
  
_'come on, just one more.'_  
  
He thought for a second or so, too short of a time to make such a large decision, but he came to his conclusion. Getting off of his bed, he walked over to the dresser he'd found, and grabbed the dagger off of the top. It would work better than the dart he'd snatched after the last battle with Weiss. The dart had no poison left; it'd probably all washed off in the water. No more using that, the blade was unstable and it hurt too much. He didn't like pain. Unlike Farfarello, he could feel it, and it bothered him. He wanted a quick death. Maybe he should have let the Weiss leader, Abyssinian, run him through with the katana, after all. It would've have been like seppuku, but murder. But maybe, there was honor in that death? However, he wasn't looking for honor now; he was just looking for a way out. And he'd found it. Walking over to the bed, he sat down, his face illuminated with an unnatural glow to it caused by the computer. It would be the only thing he'd miss. Maybe his telekinesis as well. No matter how much he'd hated it at first - it'd made him 'different' - he loved it now.  
  
With a sigh, one of relief, he raised the blade so it rested in the still-bleeding wound. He added more and more pressure until it was in deep enough to satisfy him. He pulled back forcefully, ripping the flesh open from the base of his wrist to his elbow. Dropping the now blood spattered dagger to the floor, he lay back and waited. He felt the bed underneath him, his heart beating faster and faster as it struggled to keep his blood flowing, unknowing that it was actually causing his death, causing more blood to seep out of his arm, run down his hand and join the rest on the floor. He could feel everything going on around him, but his heart felt nothing. Nothing at all. No sorrow, no regrets. Nothing. Just like he had been taught.  
  
Five minutes passed. He was still lying there, looking at the ceiling. His breathing was irregular, and he wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes and sleep. He was past the point of no return. There was no going back now, everything was said and done. He was dying, he was happy. That's all that mattered. He barely heard the door open, but he was able to hear the now familiar nasal tenor voice generally associated with Schuldich, floating down the stairs. Talking to him.  
  
**_"Oi, Nagi! Crawford wants us to eat together or something! Get up here!"_**  
  
He tried to move, for he never wanted to let Crawford down, so he had to get up and live. If it mattered to Brad Crawford, it mattered to Naoe Nagi. He couldn't find the strength to move and the weight of the world came crashing down upon him. He no longer believed that this was best; this was no way out for him. But it was too late and he knew it. He'd even been the one to do it; Naoe Nagi was going to die alone, without anyone, except for maybe a clueless German calling him for a meal he'd never attend.   
  
While his heart burned, he lay back and closed his eyes. He wouldn't reopen them.  
  
Naoe Nagi, the boy who thought he could disappear from the world without any consequences, and thought he would never feel anything again, died feeling the two strongest emotions he'd ever felt in his life. Sorrow and regret. But he'd never get a chance to express them.

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*Yes, I usually spell it Schuldig, but Schuldich just seems more appropriate for the darker nature of this fic. No clue why? Schuldig just seems like a slighter happier spelling than Schuldich.

**From Canon to Fanon Schuldich, the man has to be borderline. ^^'

Yes, I know it's short, but I didn't feel like writing one for the long haul.


End file.
